


Mummy

by ChrisCalledMeSweetie



Series: Spooky Johnlock Stories [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Halloween, M/M, Meeting the Parents, canon-divergent after the unaired pilot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrisCalledMeSweetie/pseuds/ChrisCalledMeSweetie
Summary: Meeting your boyfriend’s parents for the first time can be a bit scary. Especially when your boyfriend is Sherlock Holmes.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Spooky Johnlock Stories [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/560890
Comments: 44
Kudos: 104
Collections: Spooky Johnlock Collection





	Mummy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annemedwards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annemedwards/gifts), [shiplocks_of_love](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplocks_of_love/gifts), [DaisyFairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFairy/gifts).



John found it rather amusing the first time he heard stiff, proper Mycroft Holmes refer to his and Sherlock’s mother as “Mummy.” Mummy? Seriously? The British Government called his mother “Mummy”? Was he five? Or was this some sort of posh affectation to which ordinary John Watson simply could not relate?

Somehow, it sounded even more incongruous when Sherlock called her “Mummy,” though. Sherlock was not one for pet names. John occasionally tossed out a “sweetheart” or “honey” or “love,” but Sherlock only ever called him “John.”

Not that John was complaining. From Sherlock’s lips, “John” sounded exactly like a term of endearment. 

In any case, John was feeling a bit nervous at the moment, because Sherlock had just announced that he had rented a car to drive down to his parents’ estate that evening so John could finally meet “Mummy.”

John supposed it was time. It had been nine months since he and Sherlock had met; nine months since they had shagged each other senseless after he shot the cabbie. If they had the requisite anatomy, they could each be delivering a baby right about now. So yes, he guessed it was time to meet the parents.

Still, it was a bit nerve-wracking. Sherlock was always very closed-lipped when questioned about his family. If he and Mycroft were anything to go by, though, John expected them to be quite extraordinary. And perhaps a bit mad.

As they made their way out of London, the headlamps of their rental car illuminated costumed children trick-or-treating.

“We’d better be careful,” John joked. “The ghosts and goblins are out tonight.”

“Ghosts and goblins aren’t real, John,” Sherlock replied in all seriousness.

“Ha! Next you’re going to be telling me you don’t believe in werewolves or vampires, either,” John teased.

“Of course I don’t,” Sherlock said. Then he added disapprovingly, “Ninety percent of these children are dressed as imaginary creatures.”

John gave him a look. “And this offends you?”

“Obviously.”

“Because…?”

“This is a special night, but it has been taken over by a foolish parody of its true power.”

“Okay…” John said, and let the matter drop. He was too busy fretting over finally meeting Sherlock’s parents to give much more thought to Halloween.

When at last they pulled up at the Holmes family estate, John’s jaw dropped. It looked like something out of a BBC period drama. He suddenly felt horribly underdressed.

John half-expected a butler to answer the door, but the man who greeted them was clearly Sherlock’s father. Though he was several decades older, the family resemblance was unmistakable.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said, holding out his hand to John. “I’m so glad to finally meet you. Mycroft has told me all about you, since this one,” — he gave Sherlock’s arm an affectionate pat — “is so secretive.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” John said, shaking the proffered hand.

“Oh, no need to be so formal. Call me Siger,” he said, ushering them inside.

John gazed around in wonder. The vast entrance hall was filled with artifacts from all over the world.

Noting John’s awestruck look, Mr. Holmes said, “I don’t suppose Sherlock bothered to mention that I was an archaeologist.”

“No, he didn’t. You have a fascinating collection.”

“Oh, this is just the tip of the iceberg,” said Mr. Holmes. “I’ll be glad to give you a proper tour after supper.”

Mr. Holmes led the way to an enormous dining room. The table was laid for three. 

“Isn’t your mother joining us?” John asked Sherlock. 

“Oh, she’ll still be sleeping.” Sherlock glanced at the antique grandfather clock in the corner. “We only have a few more hours until she wakes up, though.”

John thought this a bit odd, but didn’t comment. Instead, he sat down and enjoyed the most lavish meal he’d eaten in his life.

After supper, Mr. Holmes took them on the promised tour. He led them through room after room, each showcasing artifacts from a different one of his archaeological expeditions. 

John tried to imagine Sherlock growing up here, surrounded by all of these incredible — and sometimes bizarre — objects. He supposed it might explain a bit about Sherlock’s unorthodox sense of appropriate interior decoration, like the human skull on the mantlepiece in their flat.

At last they arrived in the Egyptian Hall. It was far grander than any of the other rooms they’d visited. The walls were lined with countless treasures. In pride of place stood an ornately carved sarcophagus, inlaid with gold. 

“This is an amazing collection. Did you spend much time in Egypt?” John asked Sherlock’s father.

“Oh, yes. That’s where I met my wife, of course.” Mr. Holmes glanced down at his watch. “She should be joining us any moment, now.”

John heard far-off chimes as the old grandfather clock began to strike midnight. The hair rose on the back of his neck at another sound, nearer at hand. A low, eerie sigh was coming from _inside_ the sarcophagus. 

John stood, transfixed, as the lid of the sarcophagus began to move, seemingly of its own volition. A strange, earthy yet unearthly odor wafted from within. The sighing grew louder.

Tearing his eyes from the inexplicable sight before him, John looked to Sherlock for reassurance. Sherlock grinned back at him.

“John, I’d like to you meet…” — the lid of the sarcophagus swung fully open, and Sherlock gestured to the linen-wrapped figure stepping out of it — _“Mummy!”_

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this fic, you might want to check out some of my other [Spooky Johnlock Stories](https://archiveofourown.org/series/560890). With tales ranging from humor to horror, from fluff to smut, and everything in between, you’re sure to find something to tickle your fancy — or raise the hair on the nape of your neck.
> 
> Kind comments and kudos make me grin like a jack-o-lantern. 🎃


End file.
